"The mountains are calling, and I must go." —John Muir

Poetry Friday

(The architecture of snow was like the architecture
of the storm itself, and of the landscape.)

The weather forecast was that snow would fall.

We are like snow he said.

She understood her heart was cold.

And that if the walls could not be breached by rhetoric
or conjecture, still they leaned, comfortably
perhaps, one against the other,
an aggregate of disturbances, rust
that in the meantime corrodes, makes beautiful.